


Answered Prayers

by dracusfyre



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Depressed Steve Rogers, Horror, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, bucky is a ghost, so don't be scared off by the MCD, they are reunited in the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-10 08:33:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12295362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracusfyre/pseuds/dracusfyre
Summary: Steve prayed every night that Bucky would come back from the war.  But when he does, Steve realized maybe he should have been a little more specific in his prayers.





	Answered Prayers

                “Don’t do anything stupid until I get back,” Bucky said with a crooked grin that made Steve’s chest hurt.

                “How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.”  As soon as Steve said the words he regretted them, because when Bucky turned back his eyes were bleak, his lips a flat line in his face as he gave him a sarcastic salute.  If the world was different, he could have said _I love you.  Be safe,_ Steve wished he’d said.  _Watch your back. Keep your head down.  You don’t have to come back in one piece, just come back._   That last one became his prayer for every time he thought of Bucky.

                Whenever he came back to their empty rooms, he thought _you don’t have to come back in one piece, just come back._ The war had gone on long enough that men were starting to return missing legs and arms and eyes and in some, the spark that made them happy.  Steve saw them and gave them money when he had it to spare, and he knew that if Bucky came back like that it would be hard but he wouldn’t care. _Just come back._

Every time he was lying in bed, hard and aching, thinking of Bucky’s broad shoulders in his uniform, picturing himself peeling Bucky out of it and seeing what new muscles the Army had given him, after he finished he prayed _You don’t have to come back in one piece, just come back._

                Then one day he came home and Bucky was pacing the floor in their apartment.  Steve’s heart leapt but then he realized that Bucky’s feet made no noise on the squeaky floor and he cast no shadow; if Steve squinted, he could see the outline of the kitchen counter through Bucky’s chest.  That’s when he realized that one, he should have been more specific with his prayer, and two, he could stop praying now.

                Everything he’d been carrying dropped from his nerveless hands, and he staggered back against the door.  His stomach sank to the floor and Steve sank with it, breath hitching on a sob.

                “No, Steve, don’t-“ Bucky begged and tried to grab him by the arm, but his hands passed right through Steve with a wash of cold.  He backed up, watching Steve struggle to breathe around tears and the looming threat of an asthma attack before he just sat down on the floor next to him.  “I’m sorry, Steve, I’m so sorry,” Bucky said miserably, and then they sat there in relative silence.

                Finally Steve’s sobs quieted, and then the tears dried, and eventually he dredged up the strength to gather the things he’d dropped- a newspaper, some groceries, some trash somebody left by the door to the street.  Bucky started to stoop as if to help and then stopped, looking chagrined.  

                “How did it happen?” Steve asked quietly as he toed off his shoes and put everything away, voice rough and still damp around the edges.

                Bucky hesitated, following Steve around their tiny apartment as if he didn’t know what to do with himself. “That’s, um, that’s not a nice story.” 

                Steve stilled and felt the tears threaten again.  He turned and got a good look at Bucky, but he looked like he’d just gotten home from the docks – hair askew from running his hands through it, plain white shirt and his stained work pants.  Bucky’s smile was a little strained.  “So it…it wasn’t…fast?”

                The sound Bucky made at that was rueful and angry.  “No, it wasn’t fast.”

                Steve had to grab the counter as he swayed and tried to swallow around the pain in his chest. “I should have been there,” he whispered.  “I should have tried harder.”  But he had no idea how he could have done that; in the past year, he’d been to every recruiting station he could reach, even a few in Jersey, and each one said the same thing.  _4F._ Not good enough to fight, not good enough risk his life, only good enough to watch from the sidelines.

                “No, Steve, no. Don’t say that.” Bucky came close again, maddeningly close. Close enough that Steve should have been able to touch him but couldn’t.  “I’m glad you are here, safe.  Who knows what would have happened, you might have just died right next to me.” 

                Steve’s laugh was jagged and humorless.  “Or I might have saved you.  We’ll never know, will we?”  There was a lot Steve wouldn’t know now.  What Bucky’s skin felt like, what his mouth tasted like, the sounds he made when he came.  What he would look like with graying hair or whether he’d get laugh lines around his eyes like his mother.

                He stooped to get out the bottle of whiskey they kept stashed in the bottom cabinet and eyed it critically.  There wasn’t much, but there was enough to wash the bitter taste of Steve’s dreams out of his mouth and maybe help him get a little sleep.

                The first swallow burned and he grimaced as he swallowed.  But he welcomed the pain, it was grounding.  It took two more before he could bring himself to look at Bucky again, sitting across from him at their little kitchen table, gray eyes sympathetic and slightly transparent.

 

                The next day when he woke up the headache was merciless.  He opened his eyes, blinking blearily, and turned his head to see Bucky sitting on the floor next to the bed, watching the sun crawl down the wall.  Steve rolled over with a groan, putting his pillow over his head.

                “Hey, Stevie.  How ya feeling?” There was a wash of coolness against his back, up to the back of his neck, and it felt good.

                Steve thought about what his day would be like, trudging down the sidewalk to work, the mindless drudgery, the lonely walk home to an empty house.  Cooking for one.  Reading the newspaper talking about a war he couldn’t fight in.  If he wasn’t too tired, he could pull out his sketchbook.

                Goddamn did it all seem pointless now.

                “I don’t want to go to work,” Steve said finally, which was about all he could bring himself to say.

                “Who does?” Bucky said with a faint smile.  “But you’re going to have to be the breadwinner for us now, on account of the fact that I lost my body in the war.”

                “That’s not funny, Bucky.” Steve sat up, scrubbing his hands over his face.

                “Not into the gallows humor?”

                “Oh God, stop.” Steve hauled himself out of bed, swinging his legs through Bucky’s torso without thinking. The cold made him shiver.  “Sorry,” he muttered.

                “It’s fine. I don’t really feel it.”

                Steve went through all the motions of getting ready to work while Bucky watched, looking a little lost.  He swallowed toast that felt like dust in his mouth and made coffee, carefully rationing out enough grounds for one cup of thin coffee that was honestly more bitterness than anything else. 

                “Stop thinking maudlin thoughts about the bitterness of coffee, Steve, I know that’s what you’re doing when you get that look on your face,” Bucky said.  “Look, I know this…this is a shock, but…”

                “A shock?” Steve said, looking up at Bucky incredulously.  “Getting fired is a shock, Bucky.  Missing a step going down the stairs is a shock.  Finding out that my- my friend is dead and _haunting me_ is something entirely different.”  Bucky opened his mouth to say something, looking vaguely guilty, but Steve just shook his head. “I gotta go.  Will you be…um…around?”

                “I don’t know,” Bucky said.  “It doesn’t come with a manual.”

***

                When Steve got home that evening, Bucky was sitting at the kitchen table and glaring down at a pair of Steve’s cufflinks.  As he set his shoes by the door and shrugged out of his coat, he saw Bucky poking at them repeatedly with no effect.

                “What are you doing?”

                “Hey, Steve,” Bucky said, not glancing up.  “In the stories, ghosts are always moving shit around.  So I’m trying to learn.”

                “Any luck?”

                “No. Dammit.”  For a second, the disgruntled look on Bucky’s face was so familiar and dear that Steve automatically reached up to lay a hand on his shoulder.  The smile that had been trying to tug at his lips vanished when his hands met chill hair instead of warmth.   Steve sighed and searched the kitchen for something to eat, even though he wasn’t hungry.

                That night Steve woke up with a gasp, sitting straight up as he struggled to breath despite the tightness in his chest.  He’d been dreaming of Bucky in the bottom of well, bleeding to death from a wound in his stomach as he cried out for help.  Rubbing his eyes, he saw Bucky sitting out on the fire escape, looking down at the street.  He got up for a glass of water and went to the window.

                “How did you die, Buck?”

                Bucky just shook his head without turning to look at Steve. 

***

                The next day Bucky experimented by following Steve out of the house, finding to his delight that he had no problem leaving the apartment.  “Looks like you’re stuck with me,” Bucky said with an irrepressible grin.  While Steve spent the whole walk to work staring at the sidewalk, shoulders hunched, Bucky commented on the neighborhood and everything that had changed since he was gone.  Steve responded with as few words as possible.

 _Yes._ Mrs. Jameson had another kid.  Was the shop on the corner closed for good? _I dunno._

                He shuffled into work and bid the boss good morning before sitting down at his desk.  He looked at his stack of work dully before he picked up the first page and got started.  His already questionable focus for the day was completely shot to hell by Bucky, who seemed to be doing everything in his power to try to cheer Steve up.  Around lunch time his efforts struck Steve as grossly macabre and inappropriate.

                “Go away Bucky,” he hissed finally when everyone left the room. “I can’t concentrate.”

                The next day Bucky came to work again, but this time he made a special effort to be quiet.  That wasn’t much better, because Steve could still see him out of the corner of his eye and every time he did his breath got sharp and jagged in his chest.  Steve didn’t have the heart to ask Bucky to leave this time, but the entire day was acute agony.

                On the way out the door on the third day of Bucky’s…return, Mr. Williams stopped him with a curt snap of his fingers. “Look, Rogers, I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, but you need to fix your attitude.  There are lots of young women looking for work right now that would do the same job but for a lot less pay, understand?”

                “Who the hell does this guy think he is?” Bucky said from behind Steve.  “He can’t talk to you like that!”

                “Yes, sir.  I understand, I’ll do better,” Steve said, face stony and impassive.  “Is that all for today?”

                “Get outta here,” the man waved him away.  Steve turned on his heel and left, ignoring Bucky’s incredulous scowl.

                “What the hell was that?”

                “I need that job, Bucky,” Steve gritted out under his breath, walking fast enough that it was starting to make his chest tight.  He brushed his bangs off his forehead and tried to take a deep breath.  “I can’t afford to be unemployed, not even for a week.”

                “Oh. Right.” Bucky was silent for half a city block.  “Still, screw that guy. What a creep.  Oh, look what’s coming to the cinemas! Have you been to a movie since I left?  We could go, it’d be a two for one special,” Bucky said with a smile, and sheer habit had him try to drive his elbow into Steve’s ribs.  The sudden stab of cold made Steve stumble and the smile fell from Bucky’s face.  “Sorry,” he mumbled, and was quiet for the rest of the walk home.

                That night he dreamed of Bucky slowly freezing to death, lips going blue as he got paler and paler. “It’s ok, Steve, it doesn’t hurt,” he kept saying over and over. 

***

                Later on that week he was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering what Bucky did all night, when his mercurial body start to send blood south, felt himself swelling and thickening in his boxers.  He huffed in irritation and rolled over before Bucky could see it, but then the pressure and friction only made matters worse, and suddenly he was kind of craving the release, for a few minutes free of the static in his brain.

                “Hey, Bucky,” Steve said, clearing his throat self-consciously.  “Is there, uh, another place you can go?”

                “I can try.  Why?”  The moonlight shimmered oddly on Bucky’s form, some of the light reflecting off, some passing right through.

                “I could just use a little bit of privacy.”  Steve felt his face burning in the dark.

                “Oh. _Oh,”_ Bucky said, sounding surprised and then intrigued.  “You don’t want me to stay?”

                “Well, I-“

                “Because I want to stay.  We never got a chance to do this,” Bucky murmured, and Steve could tell he was moving closer from the sound of his voice, which had gotten deep and gravelly like he’d been smoking and drinking all night.  Steve shivered, remembering all the times he’d used that voice on the girls at the dance halls.  “Can I…can I watch?”

                At that Steve made an almost wounded noise, hips pressing helplessly against the mattress.  He meant to say no but “ok,” came out instead, and he rolled over.  Opening his eyes, he saw Bucky lying next to him on the bed, grey eyes glowing slightly with reflected moonlight.  He felt trapped by the hot look in Bucky’s eyes as he shoved the sheets down and slid his hands inside his boxers, groaning as he wrapped his fingers around himself.

                “Yeah, make yourself feel good, Stevie,” Bucky murmured.  “C’mon, I wanna see.”

                Steve released himself long enough to slide his boxers off, feeling the cool air against his heated skin.  “You – you wanted to do this? With me?” Steve he asked hesitantly and felt his chest grow tight, remembering all the times he’d come from just the thought of Bucky’s hands on him, warm and steady and rough with callouses.

                “Yeah, of course.  Don’t know why I never…well, now it seems dumb to have let fear stop me, you know?”  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bucky move closer, eyes moving over Steve greedily.

                “Yeah,” Steve said, a little breathlessly, a knot of heat twisting at the base of his spine from the look on Bucky’s face.  His hand sped up, drawing out a noise from deep in his chest.

                “God, how many times did I imagine what you would sound like.” Bucky reached out but kept his hand just above Steve’s skin, tracing cool lines over his face, his lips, down his chest, making Steve’s breath come faster.  “Listen to you, you’re so gorgeous.”

                “I wanted to feel your hands on me so bad,” Steve confessed.  “Everywhere. On my face, my chest…” Steve ran his free hand up his chest, circling a nipple, his groan drawing an echo from Bucky.  “I wanted to kiss you, put my mouth all over you.”

                “God, baby, I wish you had. I wish you could right now. I wish _I_ could, I’d make you feel so good.  That’s right, do it,” he encouraged, his voice barely a vibration, as Steve’s hand moved faster and squeezed tighter, his body bowing off the bed from the sudden spike in pleasure.  “Just watching you is hotter than anything I’ve ever done, I swear.  Are you going to let me see you come? Let me hear you? Gonna be nice and loud for me?”

                “Christ, Bucky.” Steve is all but gasping for air.  The fire singing along his nerves is better than it had ever been, hot and shivery, better than he could have imagined.  He never wanted it to stop even as his hands moved harder and faster, his hips twitching.

                “Yeah, Steve.  You are so beautiful like this.  Next time you give me a real show, yeah? With the lights on, taking your time.”  That thought brought Steve so close to the edge that he grunted with the effort of holding out; closing his eyes, he could see himself on the bed, legs spread so Bucky could see exactly what he was doing while Bucky was in the chair, his erection a hard line in his pants while he watched.   The fantasy ran away with him- Bucky got tired of watching and strode over to the bed, spreading Steve’s thighs as he settled between them, undoing his belt and zipper while he watched Steve go to pieces beneath him.  “I want to fuck you so bad, Steve,” Bucky said in his ear, voice raw and deep and going right to Steve’s groin.  “Would you have let me do that? Let me get inside you?”

                Steve came so hard he was shocked into silence, body locking up as his toes curled.  He couldn’t make noise until after the first rush of hot pleasure had peaked, moaning as each pulse afterwards scraped across his nerves.  Even when he was done he still gasped for air, his body still thrumming with the aftershocks.  When he could open his eyes he turned to look at Bucky, who looked absolutely wrecked, eyes blown and dark, hair a mess, chest heaving.

                “I love you, Stevie,” Bucky said, and Steve tried not to let the chill sink in, but it did anyway, past the warmth fizzing in his body.   This was going to be as much as Steve would get, _ever;_ he had waited too long, been too afraid.

                Steve fought the tears as he cleaned himself off with rough, jerky motions, but when he lay back down his breath hitched.  “I love you, too, Bucky.  I think…I think you’re it for me.” He stared up at the ceiling as hot tears streaked down his face and soaked his pillow.  “I don’t think there will ever be anyone else.”

                “Don’t say that.” Bucky sat up.  “Things will get better, I promise.”

                Steve wanted to ask how he knew that, how he could promise that, how he could even _think_ that when every day was so dull and boring, each one only distinguishable by the changing weather.  But he just dried his face and tried to sleep.

***

                It was almost a month before Steve got a knock on the door one Saturday.  He put the paper down and finished off his second cup of coffee, something that he only indulged in every other week or so.  Bucky turned in his seat with interest; this was the only visitor Steve had gotten all month.

                As soon as Steve saw Rebecca, Bucky’s only sister, he knew why she was there.  He set his jaw, eyes burning, and stepped back to let her in.  She couldn’t even say the words without crying, so he let her sob into his shoulder while he tried not to look at Bucky, who was leaning against the kitchen counter looking miserable, like he’d cry if he had the body for it.  Finally Becky just showed them the letter the Barnes’ had gotten: _sorry to inform you, entire unit captured, missing presumed dead._ Saying everything and nothing.

                “Do you think…do you think he could still be alive?” Becky said when she could talk again, spots of color high on her cheeks while she strangled one of Steve’s handkerchiefs.  Steve shuffled his feet and looked at the floor, trying to find the words.

                “I think,” he said carefully, “that if there was real hope for that, the Army wouldn’t have sent you that letter.  I think it would be better to one day have a happy surprise than die a little each day, waiting for something that might never happen.”

                Becky’s breath hiccupped.  “That’s what Mom said, too.  How could you both-“ she bit off whatever she was going to say and shook her head sharply.  “I’m going to go.”

                “I’ll walk you home.”

                “No, that’s- I’ll be fine.” She stood sharply and was out the door before Steve could even get his shoes on.  Steve took a few deep breaths until he could talk without his voice shaking.

                “Why me, Bucky? Why not your family?”

                He felt the slightly cool gust of air that said Bucky had moved to sit next to him. “I don’t know.  I’m not doing this on purpose.”  Bucky said _this_ like he knew what it was doing to Steve to see him there every day, so close but so far away.  He must, because even though he was dead he was still Bucky.  He had to know why Steve was spending more money on alcohol than on his medicine, why his cabinets were stocked with food that didn’t require much effort to prepare.   “Is there anything I can do to help?”

                Steve rubbed his eyes and sighed.  “I don’t know, Buck.”

                When he closed his eyes that night, he kept thinking about Bucky being captured.  In his dreams Bucky was hungry and hollow-cheeked with deep set, bruised eyes.

***

                Steve closed the door beside himself with relief, shutting out the cutting wind that had chased him all the way home.  He looked at the stairs and heaved out a sigh as he started climbing, half-pulling himself up by the railing.

                He’d always thought of himself as a fighter.  His mom had liked to say that he’d been fighting since he was born, fighting to breath despite his chronic asthma, fighting to walk despite his crooked spine.  Bucky said that Steve’s fighting was going to be the death of both of them if Steve kept mouthing off to guys twice his size.

                But today he hesitated outside his apartment door and breathed out slowly, letting his head rest against the cool wood, realizing that he was so _tired of fighting_.  Every day now was a fight.  At first, being able to see Bucky, to talk to him, felt it was more than he ever could have hoped for.  He was glad that there was still something left that he could have all to himself.  But now, seeing him was almost more pain than it was worth, to be able to look and but not touch.

                He was only able to force himself to go inside when he heard someone start to come up the stairs.  Yesterday’s newspaper was still spread out on the floor for Bucky to read, and Bucky himself was back at the table, still stubbornly trying to move Steve’s cufflinks.  He claimed that he was making progress because he could actually feel them now, even if Steve never saw them move.

                “I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Steve said, surprising himself.  He didn’t even realize he had been thinking that until he said it, but it felt like a weight off his shoulders.  Bucky’s look of surprise and then his quickly hidden look of hurt, however, felt like a stab in the gut.

                “What do you mean, _this?_ _This_ , as in _me_?”

                “I don’t know what I mean, Bucky,” Steve said, sitting down heavily in the chair across from Bucky, resting his head on the table.

                “Are…you asking me to-to leave?”  Steve could barely hear him, his voice was so quiet, and guilt shredded his insides.  Where could Bucky even go? _Could_ he go?

                “No, of course not.” He raised his head to see Bucky fisting his hands in his hair, staring down at the table.  He glanced up to see Steve watching him and he put his hands down, mouth a flat line.  “But this is torture, Bucky,” Steve pleaded.  “Wanting you so badly, but…” He reached out to put his hand over Bucky’s, flattening it against the table when it just passed through.

                Bucky jerked his hand away.  “You think I don’t know? You think I don’t feel it too? It’s not even half a life, it’s…it’s all but nothing.  You’re the only thing-“ Bucky stopped and pressed his lips together.  They sat in silence for a while, then Bucky said, “Maybe if you talked to someone?”

                “Tried that.”  Weeks ago Steve had talked to a priest in confession, saying that he was being haunted by a ghost of his friend that died in the war.  The priest suggested grief counseling, but as Steve walked home, shoulders braced against the growing chill in the air, he realized that grieving wasn’t his problem.  Not being able to grieve was the problem.

                 “Maybe you should go out. Like, a night out might do you good.”

                “Yeah, _there’s_ a Bucky suggestion,” Steve scowled, but it didn’t actually sound too bad.  He didn’t have to talk to anyone, but being out of the house would be nice.   He could try a new place so that no one would know him or ask about Bucky. 

                Tomorrow, though.  He collapsed on the bed, fully dressed, and promised himself he’d go out tomorrow.

***

                It wasn’t until Saturday that he managed it, and even then it took a full day of hectoring from Bucky.  After dinner he washed up got dressed, and walked out the door before he could talk himself out of it. Again.

                The night air was cool and sharp in his lungs, so he coiled the scarf tighter around his throat and walked faster.   He crossed the street to avoid the bar that Bucky had liked and, after a moment of hesitation, turned his feet to walk into the neighborhood that people whispered about, that he’d seen mentioned in the morality rags.  For all of the genteel outrage over this side of town, Steve found nothing to write home about; the men were dapper in suits and the ladies fashionable in their tailored dresses.  It was until he stopped at an intersection and realized that some of the men in suits were suspiciously smooth-cheeked with thick eyelashes, and that more than a few ladies had Adam’s apples.  His footsteps stuttered for a moment, but then he lifted his chin and kept walking. 

                Finally he saw a door that was getting plenty of traffic going in and out, light and sound brightening the night every time the door opened.  A burly fellow with one eye was guarding the door, but Steve gathered his courage and stepped up to him after a group of women walked out, laughing behind their hands.

                “What, do I need an engraved invitation?”  Steve said, scowling as the bouncer studied him for long seconds.  Finally he stepped back and waved Steve in.

                A wall of music and warm air, heated and made moist by the crush of people, hit him like a wave.  Outside, the night was dark and cold and the specter of war was constantly looming, but inside it was glittering jewelry and a lively band, shiny fabrics and the din of conversation.  Steve felt something in his shoulders relax and he took a deep breath, the first in what felt like a long time.  He made his way to the bar, making a conscious effort not to get aggravated by the jostling and the wait before he could speak to the bartender.

                “I’ll have a beer, please,” Steve said, standing on his tiptoes to lean over the bar so he could be heard over the noise.  “Whatever’s on tap.”  He turned to look at the crowd while he waited and caught someone looking at him.  When the man’s dark eyes met his the man winked.  Steve turned away in surprise, feelings his cheeks get red and heart beat faster.  He brushed his bangs off his forehead as he suddenly felt awkward in his own body, self-aware and alive in a way he hadn’t felt since…since-

                Steve shook his head to dismiss the thought and took a sip of his beer as the bartender made change.  The man on his left got up and left before Steve could decide where to sit, so he took the empty stool gratefully, flashing the lady a self-conscious smile when she glanced at him over her shoulder.  The smile he got in return was the warmest Steve had ever gotten from a stranger, even though she turned away without saying anything.  It gave Steve the courage to turn and face the crowded room instead of staying hunched over his drink.  If he saw someone he liked, he let his eyes linger; when a man offered to buy him a drink, he let him, feeling defiant and reckless.

                When Steve left, two beers in and feeling just the right amount of drunk, Bucky was waiting outside, staring hungrily at the door every time it opened.   Steve’s smile fell just a little; Bucky used to scrimp and save all week so that they could afford to go out Friday and Saturday night.  He imagined Bucky going inside, his presence only remarkable as a chill as he passed by, unable to drink or dance. 

                “Hey, Stevie,” Bucky said, breaking Steve out of his melancholy thoughts, his hungry look fading as he caught up to Steve on the sidewalk.  “I thought I’d walk you home.”

                Steve’s lip curled wryly. “Yeah? What are you going to do if someone hassles me? Give them goosebumps?”

                Bucky barked out a surprised laugh.  “Rude, Stevie, real rude.   Picking on a guy because he’s, whaddya call it, _noncorporeal._ ”

                It was Steve’s turn to laugh.  He turned to face Bucky, walking backwards. “Where did _you_ learn a word like noncorporeal?”

                “Ghost class,” Bucky said loftily.  “Meets once a week at the cemetery.”

                Steve was just drunk enough that that seemed morbidly funny instead of just morbid.  Bucky started making up stories about his classmates and it wasn’t until Steve noticed a policeman looking at him oddly that he remembered that he was the only one who could see or hear Bucky. 

                He sobered up real quick after that.

***

                One day, Steve woke up from a bad dream – thankfully one he didn’t remember, only remarkable because of the memory of suffocating sadness that woke him up – and remembered that he didn’t have to go to work because it was Thanksgiving. 

                “What’s the matter?” Bucky asked when Steve just sat at the edge of the bed, looking lost.

                “Today’s Thanksgiving.”

                “Oh. You going to head over to my mom’s house?” Bucky looked excited at the prospect, his face falling when Steve shook his head.

                “I don’t think I’d be very welcome.”

                “That’s ridiculous. Of course you’d be welcome.”

                Steve just shook his head and lay back down, curling up in the blanket.  Even if they did invite him in, the prospect of spending that much time with Bucky’s family without Bucky there sounded exhausting.  Everyone tiptoeing around the subject of Bucky but acutely aware of his absence, or worse, everyone _talking_ about Bucky while Steve had to pretend like he wasn’t right there.   “I don’t wanna go out.”

                “Whatever you say, Steve.  Maybe you could draw today, the snow is making everything look really poetic.”

                “Maybe.”  Christ but it was cold in here.  Not for the first time he wished that Bucky could warm him up instead of only making him colder.  There was an extra blanket in the closet, the one that was usually on Bucky’s bed, but getting it seemed like too much work right now so Steve just curled up tighter.

***

                In the middle of December, Steve came in to work to see an envelope sitting ominously on his desk and Mr. Williams conspicuously absent.  With a sense of inevitability Steve read the short but devastating letter and counted out his severance pay, accurate up to that day.  He did the math in his head – his situation wasn’t too dire, because rent was paid up for the month, he had some food in the house and it wasn’t like he had any Christmas presents to buy.   So he bought some flowers and a small bottle of whiskey and went to visit his mom.

                When he didn’t come home after work Bucky found him, sitting in the snow on his mother’s grave.  He didn’t even blink when Bucky appeared next to him, he just reached out and brushed off the snow on his mother’s tombstone that had accumulated since the last time he’d done it.

                “Hey, Steve.  How long have you been here?”

                Steve shrugged.  There had been a few other people here when he’d arrived, but now they were gone and even their footsteps had been erased by the snow. Steve managed to scoot himself clumsily to sit against the tombstone and took another swallow of whiskey.  He actually felt like it was getting warmer, even though the snow was still falling around them in soft flakes. 

                “What are you doing, Stevie?” Bucky said gently, stooping to sit beside him, making no impression in the freshly fallen snow.

                “Having a drink,” Steve said, taking another swallow as if to prove his point. 

                “Outside? In the snow?”

                “It’s picturesque.”

                “It’s suicide, is what it is.  Is that what you’re doing?  Going to kill yourself?”

                Steve just shrugged.  “Lost my job today.  Factory’s downsizing.”

                “So you decided to buy yourself a celebratory bottle of alcohol?”  Bucky made a face at him. “Come on, get up.  Go home, and tomorrow you can look for a better job.”

                “Why? What’s the point?” Steve said, letting his head fall back against his mother’s tombstone.  “You’re dead, my mom’s dead.  I’ll probably catch pneumonia any day now, if someone doesn’t kill me for being a fairy first.”  Bucky was silent for a long time, watching Steve, his expression unreadable. “What?” Steve said challengingly.  He had to try twice before the words would come out, his lips were so numb.  “You can’t even argue with me.”

                They sat there in silence for a long time, then a violent shiver wracked Steve’s body, strong enough that he made an involuntary noise of surprise.  He took another sip of whiskey to chase away the chill. 

                “I was really angry when I died,” Bucky said suddenly, looking down at his hands.  “I was strapped to a table and they were...there was this guy who…” Bucky shook his head sharply, jaw tight.” I was so scared, I was begging and praying to be rescued.  When I realized I was going to die there, I got so angry. I didn’t know a person could hold that much anger. I hated the man who strapped me to the table, all of the men who weren’t on that table, the Nazis for starting the war, America for not rescuing me, humans for inventing war in the first place.  God for letting it happen.  I swore I’d do anything if I could just…anyway.  Now you know.  That’s how it happened.” 

                “Jesus, Bucky,” Steve said, eyes wide.  He took a sip of whiskey to cover the sudden taste of bile in his mouth. “I’m so sorry. I wish…”

                Bucky shrugged off whatever he was going to say. “You’ve stopped shivering,” Bucky pointed out after a while.

                “I know.”

                “That’s a bad sign.  In the Army they said it means hypothermia is setting in.” Bucky glanced around the graveyard but it was silent and still, except for Steve. No one else was foolish enough to be out in this weather this late.

                “I’m actually feeling kind of warm.” Steve took another swallow of whiskey and started to shrug out of his coat, balling it up and stuffing it between himself and the cold granite of the tombstone.

                “If you don’t get up now, you’re going to die here.”

                “Good,” Steve spat, hoping there was a mulish look on his face since it had gone numb ages ago.  If he couldn’t be with Bucky on this side maybe he could be with him on the other.  He tried to take another drink but his coordination was shot; most of it spilled onto the snow.

                “Yeah,” Bucky agreed.  Steve looked up in surprise to see that Bucky’s eyes were black as pitch and his lips were curled into a shark-like grin. “I’m sorry, Stevie, but suicide’s a mortal sin, you know.  You’re gonna be coming downstairs with me.”   This time when Bucky reached out for him his hand was hot against Steve’s skin, hotter than fire, hotter than anything Steve had ever felt before.  Steve tried to scream but he couldn’t breathe as Bucky burned him up from the inside out.


End file.
